


The Magic of Deduction

by Burretosarefun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Background Relationships, Bully!JimMoriarty, Bully!SebMoran, But they are sweet you won't hate them I promise, Developing Relationship, Dorks in Love, Eurus isn't bad she just has issues, Eventual Smut, Feels, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, How Do I Tag, Multi, Mycroft Has An Eating Disorder, Mycroft is two years older than Sherlock, Nearly everyone is Hella Gay, No canon of Harry Potter Universe It's literally just the Setting, Potterlock, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-29 09:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burretosarefun/pseuds/Burretosarefun
Summary: Sherlock is a fifth year Ravenclaw moving to the sixth because even for a Ravenclaw, his intellect exceeds expectations.John is a muggle-born Gryffindor in his sixth year still trying to learn what belonging means.Mycroft is a seventh year Ravenclaw finding it difficult every growing day to keep his emotional distance.Greg is a seventh year Gryffindor with a love for Quidditch and good morals that get him in the wrong places.A fic of the antics of our faves around Hogwarts. Expect Sherlock and John sneaking around at night, Head Boy Mycroft, Quidditch lads John and Greg, and Hella Gay Seb/Moran...{Currently on HIATUS}





	1. Alohomora

**Author's Note:**

> Age of consent in the UK is 16. Most explicit chapters will be of those who are 16 or over, but not every character in this story is the age of consent. That being said, if consensual acts between people who are aged 14/15 bothers you, you are welcome to skip over those chapters, I will give a warning.
> 
> I hope to write this in a way that even people who have limited or no knowledge on Harry Potter can still enjoy the fic. Often with AUs like these that have so much lore, it can be difficult to get into. I really hope this works for everyone, and if it gets confusing, let me know.

 

 

The weather was cold, cold for a typical day in September. It almost felt like winter was coming early, bleeding its way into autumn and summer like a sickness. The trees were feeling it too. Their leaves had dried themselves out, turned crispy with their molten hue.

John was going to return back to school in a weeks time for his sixth year. Frankly, he didn't know what to expect this year, but coming from a non-magic family, he never did know what to expect when it came to Hogwarts. Every year since he got his letter of acceptance was wackier than the last. Everything was completely out of his comfort zone from the moment he set foot in the school. Everything he thought he knew about the world was completely turned on its head.

Last year was his Ordinary Wizarding Levels. He managed to get by them just fine, pretty decent scores too, enough to get him through to NEWTs. It wouldn't be long before his younger sister was going to take her GCSEs.

"Happy birthday dear Harry, Happy birthday to you!"

John fought to keep the grim line off his face. He pushed himself to smile when she bent over her cake to blow out the number 11 candles, sitting back up with a huge smile on her face.

"What did you wish for?" John's father asked.

Harry grinned a mixture of baby and adult teeth. She always had been behind in development: slow to walk, talk and teethe. She pushed back a rogue lock of blonde fringe. "Obviously, I can't tell you, dad."

John sighed. He knew what _he_ wished for. He spent all day by the front door waiting for it, but Harry's acceptance letter never came. She wasn't a witch. As it stood, John was the only weirdo. John just automatically assumed that since he was a wizard, Harry would have magic too. He waited for more than 14 hours, the smile on his face slowly receding as the day wore on. There was no letter, which meant he was the only one in his family to be born with gifts.

There was a small chance that maybe he wouldn't be so alone, so isolated from his own fucking family, and that had just be snatched away with an exhale from Harry's lungs, dissapating with the flame. 

She sliced into the cake with quick lines. John didn't feel like eating it, but he did anyway to keep her smiling. He grimaced as she unwrapped the present from him: a self-made little book on flying tips that he thought would have come in useful for her first year. She looked up from the book to him, smiling, but sadly. 

”Show us, dear.” John’s mother said. 

Harry held up the notebook. 

“Ah. Well, that’s... uh, lovely, isn’t it? Very thoughtful.”

Harry set it aside, and tried not to look too excited about the bracelet that was wrapped up in the next package. 

 

"John," She said later, when he was brushing his teeth for bed. "Thanks for the gift."

He nodded. "You're probably not going to even use it." He laughed light-heartedly.

"I'm sorry."

He laughed again, without humour. "Why are you sorry, idiot? It's not your fault."

"Yeah, but it isn't your fault either. I know you wanted-"

John spat out the toothpaste before he spoke. "I didn't want anything! Honestly. It's good for you, you get to go through the life you want to have, right? It's great. It's all good. Amazing in fact."

"John-"

"No, I'm serious. Harry, I don't mind." John said, drying his hands on the towel. “I mean, I wish you could’ve at least seen the grounds. You’d have loved the views.” 

“You always say. You talk about Quiddig too.” 

“Quidd- _itch_. You’d hate that. Aggressive sport.” 

“Yeah, not one for sports.” Harry crinkled her nose. 

“And you’d have to pass OWL exams. It was difficult too, I mean I don’t know how I managed-“

“Yeah, I get it. You’re smart and you passed tests, don’t show off.” 

John guffawed. “I’m not that smart, Harry. I had to work hard on them. Anyway, with all that, and the creatures and the ghosts and the upside-down logic, you’d hate it there.”

It was true. The more he thought about it, the more he realised how Harry would never fit into the wizarding world. She was the most muggle kind of muggle you’d ever meet, and she liked it that way. She loved him of course, but she would never be able to live a witch’s life herself. She was too much like their parents. 

John was not. He was always the black sheep. It never made sense to him why he had always been so different, not until he got his letter. His mum asked him once what he wanted to be when he was older. He had no clue. He never had a favourite genre of music, or a football team, or a general interest in anything as a kid. He was always described as bland - no similar interests to make friends with and no personality. He could never explain why things sometimes seemed to move around on their own accord, or why that one day the lightbulb popped when he got angry, or why his hair grew too fast.

When he got to Hogwarts, it was a wake-up call. There was so much _new._ Everything was brand new to him, he was a kid learning about the world all over again in a new light. It was fantastic. His parents would be lying if they said they didn’t see a difference in him after the first year, coming home talking about how he transfigured a toad into a teapot, eyes brimming with an excitement they had never seen in him before. 

But, he learned quickly, the wizarding world was biased to people like him. Being muggle-born was seen to be a disadvantage. He hadn’t grown up being taught about being a wizard, he had to learn it all in the space of a month before he attended. Some who were from pure-blood families, where every member was a witch or wizard, were still not too fond of the idea that muggle-borns were of equal talent to them. Job opportunities, everything, was difficult. Even making friends was difficult. He was still alone, but now it was a brand new world where he didn’t know anything and that was much worse.

He was hoping that when his sister got her letter things would be different. He would waltz into school with a magic sibling who would probably get sorted into Hufflepuff and then show everyone that magic really is in his blood and he is worth his place in Hogwarts because he deserves to be there and oh my god John you’ve really been thinking too much about this. 

John snapped himself awake when he heard a crash downstairs. 

“What was that?” Harry turned around in the bathroom doorway. 

“I’ll go check. Sounded like a plate.”

John jogged down the stairs to the kitchen where his mum was sweeping away the remnants of a broken mug.

”Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, just slipped out of my hand, John.” His mother said, throwing it into the bin.

“Here, let me help.” John said, offering to put the rest of the crockery away from the dishwasher. 

“Sometimes I wish I had your gifts, I wouldn’t have so many accidents!” 

John smiled. “You know I can’t use magic outside of school.” 

“Yeah, I remember. Would come in handy though, wouldn’t it?” She smiled back. “The holiday has gone so quickly, I can’t believe you’re going back to school next week. What is it you’re studying for now?” 

“NEWTs. Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests. Kind of like A-Levels.” 

“That sounds about right. I remember my A-Levels.” His mum hummed in thought. “And the ones you did last year, OWLs was it? Those are like GCSEs?”

“Yeah, in a sense. I didn’t know you did A-levels.” 

“I never said I passed them, son.” 

“Ah.” John fought the smile of his face as he put a tumbler glass back into the cupboard. 

"You've got all your things? Do you need anything else?" 

"No, I'm meeting with Greg the day I go. I'll just need a lift to the station."

His mother stopped wiping down the kitchen cabinets to look at him. "John, about Harry..."

He paused. "What about her?"

"She, well, she's eleven now. Should we expect anything?" She raised a slightly worried, inquisitive eyebrow at him. 

"No. She's... ordinary. It's just me." John said, tight-lipped. 

"Right, of course. I mean it's just as well, with her birthday being so close to the beginning of the school term, we'd hardly have any time to buy her things-"

"I better get up to bed. Night mum." John said suddenly, making his way to the stairs.

"Ah, night sweetheart."

He was halfway up when he heard his mother call for him. 

"John?" 

"Hm?"

She waited before he turned around to face her before she spoke. "I'm not going to pretend to even remotely understand your world but me and your dad, we're both so proud of you. And Harry is too."

Somehow the line eased a bit of the hollow in his chest. 

He smiled, and it wasn't forced this time. "Thanks mum."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"This is wonderful!"

"Yes. Amazing. Absolutely."

"Honestly Sherlock, I know you're pleased, don't even deny it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes fiercely. "What would make me pleased is if they graduated me right now, not move me up a _single_ year."

"No, look dear, 'We are delighted to inform you that William Sherlock Scott Holmes has surpassed his OWL examinations and is to be moved from his fifth year to his sixth at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’." His mother read from the letter, brimming with excitement. 

Sherlock sighed over dramatically. "I have already read it, reading it again won't change what it says. I don't see why you're so excited, mummy, I still have two more useless years of education. I did my OWLs early, surely they should let me do my NEWTs this year."

"Let us pray you don't." His elder brother said, flipping over the page of the newspaper he was reading, _The Daily Prophet,_ with a swish of his finger rather than actually touching it. Mycroft was seventeen now, and perfectly allowed to use magic outside of school, a fact that he loved parading around in front of Sherlock as unnecessarily as he could. "Heaven forbid you get placed in my year, and sit in my classes." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Won't be able to endure the humiliation?"

"Boys, please. Mycroft, you should be happy for your brother! Tell him you are proud." Their father said.

"I'd rather not lie in front of mummy.”

"Wouldn't be the first time." Sherlock said smugly, earning a stone-faced glare.

"Oh, stop. Have you decided which classes you are going to attend?"

"Obviously. All of them." Sherlock said, smoothing back a curl.

His mother twittered. "All of them?"

"Mycroft is taking all of them. I don't see why I can't."

"You were not supposed to know about that." Mycroft said severely.

"Oh please. I found the time-turner ages ago."

"But son," His father interrupted, "Mycroft is of age. You are being moved up. Won't it be too much of a strain?"

Sherlock's expression looked as if he had just been insulted beyond the worst imaginable. 

"Time-turners can't be applied for, Sherlock. They are presented by the House leaders. As was mine, four years ago." Mycroft returned to his newspaper. "Clearly you haven't been deemed responsible enough."

"Well it's not my fault that Professor Flitwick hates me." Sherlock said, throwing his hands in the air. 

"As does the entire Hogwarts body." Mycroft murmured. 

"Coming from someone who's aim is to work for the Ministry of Magic, that will soon happen to you too."

"Speaking of which," his mother cleverly sliced in. "What is your career of choice, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood up. "I'm going to be an Auror."

The silence of the room hung in the air.

Mycroft burst into laughter. "A dark wizard hunter? You?"

Sherlock looked from his brother to his parents. They were wide-eyed, blinking at him.

"You want to be an Auror?" his father said.

Sherlock nodded. 

"Well, that's, well - That's good. I'm sorry dear, I just wasn't expecting it." His mother said.

Mycroft set his paper down. "Good? _Good_ _?_ An Auror is one of the most dangerous occupations that requires few brain cells. Sherlock has the capability of reaching the highest ranks in the Ministry, and he elects to be an Auror? Madness!" The words flew out at lightening speed. 

"It requires a minimum of five NEWTs. It is not easy job." Sherlock justified.

"Surely."

"Mycroft, please don't be so hostile." His mother said. "Of course it's good that he's decided on a career path. It's wonderful he's decided to become an Auror."

Mycroft scoffed. 

"I've had enough of this. I'm retiring for the night." Sherlock announced, leaving the room. 

"All right. Be sure to call Eurus, she hasn't come down for dinner yet."

Sherlock huffed his way up the grand staircase to the third floor. This all was completely pointless. Of course his mother and father were going to be proud he moved up a year. It wasn't as if he spent the last four years being taught everything he already knew- oh wait, he did.

It wasn't that he hated school. He loved Hogwarts. He loved learning. But sitting still in a dreary room for an hour being droned on at six times a day by a teacher, the only difference between him and them being their formal qualification to teach, was agony. Many of which, in Sherlock's opinion, were not even deserving of their qualifications.

Everyone always said that Sherlock was too clever for his own good. Everyone always said that he'd follow after Mycroft too, the clever little boy he was. Pathetic.

He learned very quickly that people do not take kindly to others who are more capable, but that had never been the case for Mycroft. People had never liked him much, but he was never antagonized like Sherlock had been. He tried to round up the differences between him and his elder brother. Well, for one, Mycroft was a lot more tolerable, less belittling and more polite, a Prefect for 3 years straight, a tutor for other children, and the list went on. Sherlock on the other hand, was intolerable, rude and antisocial. That, in conjunction with constantly reducing points for the Ravenclaw house with his dangerous experiments he conducted in secret (he once blew up the a section of the greenhouses with his own potion concoction). Moving up a year to the sixth, having skipped the entire fifth year by doing his OWLs a year early, would not make him any less of a target for negativity. Especially with older wizards. 

He stopped outside the door to his sister's room and raised his hand to knock on her door. Then he stopped. 

The door's handle had a tiny thread from the jumper she was wearing yesterday evening, likely Eurus hasn't changed her clothes or hasn't left the room entirely since yesterday. The handle itself was shiny, where she had grabbed it in anger and removed the layer of dust by turning it too vigorously. There was a crack that had been widened in the adjacent wall, where she had slammed the door recently. Sherlock put his ear to the door and could hear her softly crying. He leaned back.

He could open the door, ask her what's wrong. But he wasn't going to do that, because distance was difficult to backtrack once it had been created. There was no doubt that there was great distance between Eurus and her brothers. And all three of the siblings were too stubborn to do anything about it. When was the last time they had a proper conversation? When was the last time she had been actually present with the rest of the family, mentally instead of just physically?

Sherlock lowered his hand and left to his own bedroom without knocking for her. A lack of communication between people, it seemed, went both ways. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Greg's parents didn't exactly have a typical romance story. His dad was a muggle, a mechanic who fixed cars for a living. His mum was a witch who worked for the Ministry of Magic as an observer of muggle behaviour. They met when she was working undercover, and they fell hopelessly in love. She spotted him when she was crossing the street, and spent three days learning about the job he did. Then she bought a car and purposely smashed it up, so she could take it to him to get fixed. It's a ridiculous story, but Greg secretly loved it. Absolutely no one under any circumstance was to know it, but he was a terrible romantic. Flowers, chocolates, the lot; the more cliche the better. He loved the idea of fate, and he believed in soulmates.  

He flicked through his magazine in his hand. There was an advertisement in on the new broomstick. He halted, staring. The _Firebolt_. It had all smooth edges, a glossy handle, with _Firebolt_ imprinted in gold lettering on the tip. There were footrests on it and everything. It was the new fastest broom to date. Greg had to look away, it was like porn and he nearly came in his pants; it looked so beautiful. He flicked back again, looking at the price, excitement seeping away with a frown. 

As it were, a mechanic and a muggle observer were not occupations that paid well. Greg's family were not so well off, so he wasn't the type to have a lot of spare money lying around. His own broom was fine enough- fine meaning he had been really milking the life out of it for the last three years and it was really starting to show with its performance. But he only had a year of school left, then he could just save up and buy one. His Quidditch matches might suffer for it this year, but it was better than asking his parents for money. With a sigh, he closed the magazine. 

Greg looked at his watch. He had been Waiting at King’s Cross Station for twenty minutes now, it was close to 11 o’clock. 

"Lestrade, I think we're late."

Greg looked up to find John coming quickly towards him. He lifted an eyebrow. "I was on time, where the hell have you been?"

"Sorry, I got held up." John said, lugging his huge case and his pet toad cage behind him. 

"We better run if we're going to catch the train in time. We'll be lucky if it doesn't bloody leave without us." Greg exclaimed, gripping his trolley with his suitcases on and breaking into a run; John, with his shorter legs, a beat behind him. "Just like Quidditch practice, hm?"

"Oh fuck off, Greg." John panted, laughing.

Both Greg and John were on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which is where they got to know each other. Greg was the Keeper and the Captain, and he picked John out as the Seeker last year because he thought a tiny little thing like him would be nimble enough to chase around a Golden Snitch. He was right of course, his instinct when it came to Quidditch was unwavering. 

They ran through the secret wall between platform nine and ten to get to 9 and 3/4. The Hogwarts Express hooted, minutes away from pulling away from the station. 

“Hurry up!” Greg shouted, rushing on board. 

They managed to clamber on, just as the Hogwarts Express pulled off from the platform. 

Greg leaned back, exhaling with relief and laughing at the same time. “You’re such a pisspot, you know that Watson?”

John laughed from where he collpsed on the floor. 

“If you are quite done gentlemen, I’ll request you get to your feet and find a carriage.”

Greg looked over. 

“Holmes.” He said by way of greeting. Greg came away from the wall so he could come up to a decent height to him and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. Mycroft was always so prim and proper, it was intimidating. 

The tall boy kept his expression solemn. “Lestrade. I take it you had a decent summer.”

Greg knew Mycroft, but not very well. They had been in several classes together, but they had never really exchanged anything other than a formal conversation. 

“Yeah, good enough.” Greg caught the little red badge displayed proudly on Mycroft’s uniform, next to his blue Ravenclaw tie. “Promoted to Head Boy then?” He said, conversationally. 

“Yes. I now have the authority over the Prefects. They’re currently patrolling the train.” Mycroft preened. 

John cleared his throat. 

“Oh, this is John Watson, my Seeker for Gryffindor.” Lestrade suddenly remembered. 

John smiled and stuck his mit out. Mycroft took it and shook. 

“Ah, yes. Of course. Mycroft Holmes, Head boy. Allow me to lead you to a spare carriage, though with your lack of punctuality I doubt you’ll get an empty one.”

They both followed behind him. Nearly every carriage was full. 

“What about this one?” John said, looking into a carriage that had only one passenger, a skinny boy with dark hair and his pale face stuck in a potions textbook. The textbook looked far too advanced for his young face.

Mycroft jammed his hand on the door as John attempted to slide it open. 

“Not that one!”

It made John jump, and the boy in the carriage looked up from his book to see the commotion outside. His eyes narrowed at Mycroft, but drifted over to John where they widened with interest. He lingered. John stared. 

Mycroft attempted to compose himself. “Not that one.” He said, calmer. “It’s empty for a reason.”

He moved them along quickly, practically having to tear them both away. 

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded.” Greg said. “He looked happy enough with his book if I’m honest.”

Mycroft sighed. “I am doing you a favour, Lestrade, please don’t argue.” 

He showed them into another carriage. 

“Have a pleasant journey. And be sure to change into your uniforms soon.” Mycroft said and left quickly. 

Greg and John sat down opposite each other, a girl and a boy were sat by the window. 

“Hi, Greg.” The girl said. 

Greg looked over. He didn’t know her, but being the Captain of the team, he was used to people knowing him. Especially the girls. His team always teased him about having his own little fan club.

“Alright, uh...” 

“Molly Hooper. Third year Hufflepuff.”

Greg nodded. “And...” he looked over to the boy. 

“Mike Stamford. Third year Hufflepuff as well.” 

“Nice.” 

“You played excellent last year.” Molly said, grinning. “I mean, Hufflepuff did exceptionally well, but as Captain for Gryffindor, you’re strategies were very good. Like when you did the top-down manoeuvre in your match against Ravenclaw last year, it was brilliant!”

Greg glanced at John who was trying extremely hard to conceal his smirk. 

“Well, um, cheers for that.” He said awkwardly. 

“And you,” Mike said, looking over to John. He paused, and John realised he had forgotten his name.

He rolled his eyes. “John Watson.” 

Now Greg was trying not to smirk. 

“You’re the Seeker?” Mike asked, more of a question than a statement. 

“Yeah.” 

“Ah. Well, you’re good as well.”

“Thanks.” John said flatly. He was used to that.

“Hey wait a minute, where’s Cinnamon?” John asked Greg. 

Greg perked up at the mention of his cat’s name. “She’s asleep, curled up my bag. Likes it in there, for some reason.” 

“Just as well. If she caught a glimpse of Boswell, we’d be in trouble.” John said, cradling the toad cage before setting it down. 

John bought the toad in his first year. Being muggle-born, he didn’t realise how out of fashion toads were. They were the ‘uncool’ pet. Nearly everyone had either a cat or an owl. When John turned up with Boswell, he was embarrassed. He wanted to get rid of him, but then Boswell went missing by himself a few weeks later. John was worried sick. When he returned by Christmas he had a broken front leg and John had already formed an unhealthy attachment and couldn’t bare getting rid of him. 

Greg’s cat had been his for years, since she was a kitten. She was named Cinnamon for her ginger fur and she was the prettiest cat Greg had ever seen. She was always out to get Boswell, though, to John’s misery. Greg thought it just added to her charm. 

Mike and Molly had become involved in their own conversation, so Greg turned back to John. 

“You’re in your sixth year now, right? What subjects did you pick?” 

“I want to be a Healer, so Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology and Charms.”

“Good luck with Potions, mate.”

“I know, I’m absolutely dreading it.”

The carriage lapsed into silence as the train ploughed through the countryside. It would only be a couple of hours before Greg was back in Hogwarts. He couldn’t wait. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get some Mycroft centric pov in the next chapter for you hardcore Mycroft stans (eg. me).
> 
> Beta reader wanted GET @ ME


	2. Diffindo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of binge eating disorder.
> 
> Am I selling the characters well? I sure to god hope so. This is so much fun to write! A special thank you goes out to Turducken_Lady and hoomhum for leaving lovely comments on the last chapter! It really made me smile. 
> 
> And thank you to all who read and leave kudos <3

 

Mycroft smoothed his fingers down the jumper that was one size too big. Deliberately large of course, Mycroft would never do something so imbecilic by _accident_. It was only to hide the waistline of his midsection.

Mycroft had always been on the larger side. He was tall and broad, and his turn towards comfort eating in times of stress and boredom left him heavier than most. That with his stoic personality and hawk-like expression left most people intimidated by him. He acted like his weight didn't bother him, but there were days when it did. Like today for example, the first day of school, was one of them. 

He had spent the entire summer dieting. Sherlock had spent the entire summer teasing him about it, but it wasn't anything Mycroft couldn't take in his stride. He had endured worse from his younger brother, like him merely existing. Besides, Sherlock was rather a flip of the coin; his eating habits were no healthier than Mycroft's. And people say they’re alike. In reality, they couldn’t be any different. 

The entire school body had gathered in the Great Hall for the Sorting. He watched with mild curiosity as the first years were one by one brought to the front, the Sorting Hat placed on their heads, and organised into their houses. He watched with closer curiousity at the ones put into Ravenclaw. They seemed burly enough, though some looked like they lacked some spine. Others looked far too rigid, like they had too much spine. But people always said that about him, didn’t they?

He glanced over at Sherlock who was further down the table. He watched his brother attempt to suss them all out, guess their houses before they put the Hat on. A smug expression crossed over his face when he got it right, a purse of his lips when he was wrong. 

“And now,” the headmaster bellowed. “The feast!”

Ah. The First Feast. Traditional welcome meal of the starting year. Mycroft pressed his lips together as the food appeared before him. He glanced again at Sherlock, who was already looking at him. Mycroft almost startled. 

 _What?_   He said with a look. 

Sherlock furrowed a brow and glanced at Mycroft’s plate. _I’ll_ _eat_ _if_ _you_ _eat_.

Mycroft didn’t hide his surprise. _What_ _makes_ _you_ _think_ _I_ _won’t_ _eat?_

Sherlock made a pointed expression. _I_ _know_ _you_. 

 _Is_ _that_ _sentiment_ _talking?_

To emphasise, Sherlock picked up a chicken drumstick, lifted it to his mouth and took a too-large-for-his-small-mouth bite whilst maintaining eye contact.

Mycroft raised a brow, took a bowl of cress, and poured it into his plate. He stabbed at it with a fork and chewed it, mirroring Sherlock’s expression.

Sherlock grinned. Mycroft couldn’t help grinning back.

And not moments ago Mycroft had thought they weren’t alike. 

He was halfway through his meal when there was a tap on his shoulder. 

“Hi!” A chirp voice said from behind him. 

Mycroft defaulted to a frown. He spun around. “Hello.”

Young. Second year, judging by the bout of pre-pubescent acne that was starting to blossom on his nose, and the slight squeak of his vocal cords. Short too, but height could mean anything. Yellow tie; Hufflepuff.

“You’re Head Boy, Mycroft?”

Knowing he was going to be engaged in conversation, he set down his knife and fork turned around properly. 

“Yes.” 

“I heard you tutor?” The boy said. 

“You’ve heard correctly.” 

“Great! Can you tutor me in Charms?” He asked, hopeful. 

“My schedule is rather booked up at the moment, but I’ll see if I can fit you in." He rubbed at his sternum, where his Time-Turner necklace lay hidden under his layers of clothing. "Give me your name.”

“Oh. Victor, Victor Trevor.” 

“Right. I’ll send an owl and let you know if I can.” 

He looked pleased enough, and scurried off back to his own table. Mycroft turned back to the table and found his appetite ravaging. He frowned, and looked back over at Sherlock, who had stopped eating, instead distracted with his nose in his book from the train journey. 

Sniffing, Mycroft left the slice of chocolate cake staring longingly at him and instead picked up a pear and bit into its flesh. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Greg pulled at his collar. Stupid thing. He’d spent a whole six weeks getting used to not wearing them again only to shove them back on. He undid the top button. Maybe it was just nerves. He had a right to be nervous. First day back and he was already being summoned by the House Leader. 

“Come in.” Professor McGonagall’s curt voice came, and Greg opened the door with slightly shaking hands. 

McGonagall was about as intimidating as they come. 

He stumbled in and stood awkwardly clasping his hands as she wrote out a letter with her quill. 

“Evening, Mr Lestrade.” She said without looking up.

Greg just hummed. “Uh, evening.” He choked out. “It’s been a lovely day, hasn’t it Professor?” 

“It’s going to rain this evening.” 

That shut him up. “Ah.” 

She finally set down the quill to address him with eye contact. “Obviously, I have brought you here for a discussion and not one on the weather. This is about your grades. Last years.” 

Greg swallowed. “What about them?” 

“Not up to scratch, I’m afraid. Professor Binns has mentioned a lack of concentration in your History of Magic class.” 

“Come on, Professor, it’s dull. I only picked it because it’s required for a career in Wingezamot.” 

“Yes, Court of Magic Law careers do require some historical knowledge, don't they? I suggest you pull your socks up. If not, I’ll have to suspend you from the team.” 

The colour drained from Greg’s face. “You- you can’t do that, Professor!” 

“As head of Gryffindor House I most certainly can.” 

“Not Quidditch! For one class? One class that I’m failing?” 

McGonogall pushed up her glasses from the end of her nose. “And your work ethic in Defence Against the Dark Arts.” 

“...Alright, two.” 

“And Professor Snape has said you barely passed Potions last year.” 

“...Three?”

“Three of _five_ classes, Lestrade.” McGonogall looked severe. “Granted your Charms and Astronomy grades are 'Exceeds Expectations' and 'Outstanding', but getting 'Poor' in three of them will not help you.” 

“But, why Quidditch?” Greg moaned. 

“You could do without added distraction. Believe me, removing you from the team would be devastating to me too, last year was a brilliant run.” She almost looked sad, but the deep crease in her forehead between her brow showed Greg she was very cross. 

“Look, Professor Mcgonogall, please don’t take me off the team. I’ll do anything. I’ll study for weeks on end. I’ll study like my pants are on fire. We did brill last year, I had an amazing game plan to get us back on it this year.”

There was a shift in her posture; she was sliding. 

“My grades will improve, I promise.”

She picked up her quill to start writing again, maybe to prevent herself looking in his eyes. 

“The try-outs are this Saturday. We will need a Captain.”

Greg beamed with a relieved smile. “Thank you, Prof-“ 

“But,” she cut in, “I want improvement. By Christmas I want your grades moved from Poor to the minimum 'Acceptable', or Gryffindor will make do without one. Is that understood, Mr Lestrade?”

Greg gulped. “Y-yes, Professor McGonogall. And uh, how exactly am I going to do that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, get a tutor?”

 

 

Greg groaned when he was a safe distance from her office; scared of her hearing him complain. How the hell was he going to manage this? Alright, his life did revolve around Quidditch a bit. He'd just have to suck it up and study if he wanted to keep playing. With a sigh, he trudged his way to the library. Better get cracking if his grades were going to improve by Christmas.

The library was quiet; he wasn't expecting it to be busy on the first day. Just as well too, if anyone caught him in here, he'd have it. 

He halfheartedly glanced among the shelves, realising he had no idea how to use a fucking library. He plucked the first book off the shelf. Divination. Nope. He put it back. Now, where were the History books-? 

"Good evening, Lestrade."

Greg jumped violently. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

He whipped around, and saw Mycroft stood with a barely concealed look of amusement plastered on his face. 

"Apologies. I was only going to come over to offer you some assistance. I didn't mean to frighten you." 

"Did a good job through, didn't you?" Greg exhaled, rubbing his chest where his heart had accelerated to over twice it's usual rate. "What the hell, Holmes."

Mycroft smiled gently. "Well in your defence, I doubt you were expecting anyone else to be here." Mycroft said, placing the books in his own arms down on the desk beside him. Quite a hefty pile too. 

"Yeah that's exactly what I was thinking, how did you know that?"

"It's quite obvious. It's late, and the library is empty." Mycroft replied swiftly, putting the books into seperate piles by subjects. 

"Ah." Of course Greg, you idiot. "What are _you_ doing here anyway?"

"I'm organising the books. It amazes me how people disregard the ordered space of the library. Haphazardly strewing random books in wrong places." Mycroft lifted a pile and wandered around the corner of the bookshelves to return them to their rightful places. Greg followed him. 

That was just about the nerdiest line Greg had ever heard in his life. "Yeah..." He said, uncertain. "Horrible, isn't it? Can't find a single book in this mess." He added, blaming his own ignorance on other's carelessness. "Guess that means you're quite familiar with where everything is, then?"

Mycroft turned to observe him with a look, clearly not believing a shitting word he'd just said. "Quite. As I said, I'll be happy to help."

Greg spent a couple minutes following Mycroft around as he put the books back. It was quite satisfying to watch, actually. 

"What subject?"

"History of Magic." Greg responded, with a slight sneer. 

Mycroft unsheathed his wand - applewood, dragon heartstring core, 10 and a half inches - and waved it with a swish and a flick, muttering "Wingardium Leviosa." under his breath. The books levitated to the highest shelf that Mycroft couldn't reach and returned themselves.

"You were looking in the Divination section for History of Magic?"

Greg chuckled. "All right, you got me, I don't know how to use a library. Not my division."

"I never doubted. This way." Mycroft said, and turned on his heels. Greg dumbly followed behind. He watched as Mycroft lifted an elegant arm and plucked a book from the shelf he could reach, turning to give it to him. There was something quite swan-like about the way he moved. In fact, he wouldn't be bad at Quidditch, with all that dainty movement.

"This is an excellent read." He said. 

Greg looked down at it. "Right. I need Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts too."

Mycroft raised a brow. "Quite an expansive list for the first day back." He commented.

"Yeah... long story."

"I imagine." Mycroft straightened his tie. He walked over to the other sections, pulling out a couple more books for him. "These are also good if you want to improve your grades."

Greg paused. "Wait, how did-"

"Intuition."

"Intuition?" Greg said, scoffing. "What kind of intuition knows that?" Was he outside the room, listening to the humiliation as McGonogall stomped on him?

Mycroft sighed. "You're taking more than three extra books for your studies, and it's the first day back of term. You're only taking them for three of your subjects, so it's ones to struggle in. You aren't performing well in them then, and are attempting to improve your grades."

Greg closed his mouth. "Right."

"Also, you're missing the obvious one." Mycroft said. 

"What's that?"

"You're standing in a library full of textbooks."

Greg couldn't help it, he burst into laughter. Mycroft widened his eyes, looking slightly scandalised at the outburst. He quickly smoothed it over, smiling politely. 

"I wasn't aware that was funny."

"It wasn't funny. It was damn hilarious." Greg wheezed, straightening himself up. "Clever though, that." He complimented after he recovered. 

"Thank you." Mycroft said. 

"It's Quidditch." Greg thought he'd explain. "I'll get kicked off if I don't improve them by Christmas."

"Quite harsh." Mycroft stated. 

"I know, right? Don't know how I'll manage it. McGonogall said to get a tutor, happen to know any?

"As a matter of fact I do." The amused smile returned to his face.

"Who?"

"Me."

Greg blinked. "Really? What do you tutor in?"

"Everything."

"What? You can't know everything enough to teach it."

"I do."

Arrogant prick. "Well what do you study? You're in my Astronomy class aren't you?"

"I think you'll find I'm in all your classes, Lestrade."

Greg scratched at his chin. Now that he thought about it, yeah, Mycroft actually was in all his classes. "Oh."

"But I study for a couple of extra ones."

"How many."

"A fair few." Mycroft said firmly, putting a hand on his sternum. 

Greg looked up at Mycroft. "Fair enough. Hey, how about you tutor me for all three, and then I'll pick up my grade by Christmas!"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I do have others on my list. My schedule is quite full at the moment."

Greg flattened. "Oh."

"I'm sure I can fit you in somewhere." He said, unconsciously rubbing his chest again.

"Yeah if it's not too much trouble. I mean, I would love not getting kicked off Quidditch. Speaking of Quidditch, don't you play?"

"I'm afraid not. Not really my..."

"Division?" Greg grinned. 

Mycroft returned the grin with a small curve of his lips. "Yes. Too much leg work. I shall leave the glory to the more capable."

"Shame. I bet you'd be great, it would be fun going against you."

Mycroft looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah, course. Trust me, I've got an eye for good players. You've got the body of a beater, I'd say."

Mycroft frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

By the hardened expression on Mycroft's face, this was not the right thing to say at all. 

"Yeah," Greg attempted to rectify, but ended up babbling like a toss-pot. "You know, you're tall, broad. Beaters are usually quite wide and strong, hitting the Bludgers out the way all the time."

Mycroft pressed his lips together. "I see." 

Shit. That was a bigger mistake. 

"Use the books well, Lestrade. Good evening." Mycroft said dismissively, and walked away. 

"Uh, yeah, thanks." Greg mumbled, but it was said to himself since he was alone. Great. That went well; he isn't going to tutor you for shit now, Lestrade, idiot, idiot, idiot. 

With an exasperated sigh, he picked up the books and traipsed out of the library back to the Gryffindor common room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

James Moriarty brought the apple to his lips as he took a bite out of it. It was a green one, sour, that he'd taken from the First Feast earlier that evening. He was in the Slytherin common room, staring into the fireplace. The start of his sixth year. How utterly boring.

"Where's _my_ apple?"

Jim looked over to see who entered, but he didn't need to, since he recognised the voice.

"You don't even like them, Seb." 

"Doesn't mean I don't want one." Sebastian grinned, plonking himself on the leather sofa opposite Jim by the fire.

"It's late. What are you doing awake?"

"You weren't in bed. I thought you went for a wander around the grounds without me and I couldn't have that." Seb yawned slightly. He was in his nightclothes. Jim, however, was still in his uniform; tie and all. 

With a soft sigh, Jim pulled out another apple from his robes and threw it at him. 

Sebastian caught it in his hand. "See, I knew you'd get one for me."

"I knew you'd complain." Jim said, smiling. The smile faded quickly. "It's so boring here. I can't wait to get out. Another two years of this drivel and I might just point my wand at my own head and curse myself."

Seb turned the apple over his hand and didn't speak. He realised a long time ago it would be better if he didn't speak when Jim was about to go off on a monologue. 

"Everything is so repetitive. The same thing in and out, I'm sick of it, Seb. I need excitement. I need something interesting." Jim said. 

Seb pulled out his own wand from the waistband of his night pants - Spruce wood, dragon heart-string core, 10 inches - and pointed it at the apple. " _Diffindo_." He whispered, and held the wand steady as it started to cut through the skin of the apple, slicing its way around. He began carving out a pattern.

"You'll find another hyperfixation. You always do." Seb said, as he concentrated. 

"Urgh, everyone's boring. I've bullied everyone too much that it's become boring, is that even possible?" Jim complained, rubbing his temples.

"With you, yes."

"I wonder why I put up with you, you know." Jim rolled his eyes.

Seb grinned. "Because I'm the only one who puts up with you."

"Oh, I should sock you in the face for that." 

"Go ahead and try." Seb said without the slightest worry in his voice, not even looking up from his intricate work on the apple. 

Jim smiled to himself as he watched him.  _That_ was why he put up with him. Sebastian was the only fool around here who wasn't scared of him. He was willing to stand up for himself, consider himself Jim's equal. It was entertaining. Well. He knew Jim would never actually sock him in the face, so maybe it wasn't all bravery on his part, but it was entertaining none-the-less. 

"Don't tempt me." Jim sighed and closed his eyes as he leaned onto his back, stretching his arms up into the arm of the sofa. It made Sebastian stop and glance over at him, swallowing at the movement.   

Sebastian and Jim had been friends for years. But in the last year or so, Seb realised he was looking a little too closely at the movement of Jim's lips, and lingering a little too long at the curve of his back when he changed into his uniform in the dorm in the morning, and staring a little too fondly when he started his monologues about nothing in particular. Sebastian knew it was just a petty crush. Everyone crushed on their best friend at some point, right? He'd get over it. Besides, Jim would never look at him that way. They had been friends for too long. If anything was going to happen between them it would have happened already. He wasn't going to jeopardize their friendship for anything. 

The moonlight strew through the tinted glass, casting a soft green filter onto Jim's features. Seb had to gulp again. Damn it. He wasn't supposed to be doing this, but here he was, a hair away from getting up and-

And what? What exactly was he going to do?

Jim flicked his eyes open, and Seb dropped his gaze lightning fast. 

"Where's my box?" Jim said, furrowing his brow.

"I put it away for you, you left her out." Seb tossed the apple to the side after he was done carving a mess out of it. 

"Shit. Remind me not to do that. It won't be as easy as last year." Jim sat up, and began taking off his tie and loosening his top buttons.

Damn. That wasn't at all distracting.

"Yeah, We have that fool Blaise in our dorm this year, he's a snitch. He'll rat us out the minute he sees her."

"Rat me out, you mean. Reichenbach is _my_ Acromanrula." 

The giant spider was technically an illegal pet in Hogwarts, but that didn't stop Jim from bringing her in his third year. She was still a baby yet, though she was growing quickly. She was just over the size of Seb's entire hand, but they could grow well over fifteen feet. It was going to get more and more difficult to hide her, and Seb guessed they'd have to let her go soon. He wasn't looking forward to it; Jim loved her. Seb had a humble pet rat himself. His name was Tiger. He had sleek black fur and massive front teeth. Ugly as anything, but he was Seb's and Seb loved him to bits.

Jim finally shrugged off his tie. "Bed, I think." He said sleepily, and fuck, Seb had to _stop that right now_.

Seb blinked and he pushed down the little hitch in his chest to flick up his brows, entirely over-dramatic and suggestive. "Finally. Thought you'd never ask me."

Jim laughed at him.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first class John was going to take at NEWT level was Potions. He wanted to cry about it. It wasn't going to be fun in the slightest, he knew that much. It was just another thing he had to push through if he wanted to be a Healer. 

He strategically picked a seat in the middle; away from the front to be less of a target for harrowing from Professor Snape, and not at the back to completely have no sense in what was going on in the lesson. He wanted to pass after all. 

"Open your books to page 143."

John felt a ball of paper hit the back of his head. He touched at the spot, and looked behind him at the culprit.

Jim bared his teeth at him in a grim wolf-like smile, Sebastian snickering next to him.

"Cheers for that, Moriarty." John huffed, picking up the paper from the floor.

"Wasn't me." Jim said, lifting his eyes to the ceiling innocently. 

"Or you Moran. Whoever it was. Sir, look what he just did, aren't you going to deduct points?"

"Don't whine, Watson." Snape said coldly, making Sebastian snort with laughter.

John rolled his eyes. It's not like he was expecting Snape to deduct points from his own house, but the favoritism was excessive. He opened up the paper, but it was blank. Sighing, he tossed it to the side. Maybe it would have been a good idea to sit at the back after all.

John tried to actively engage in the lesson, but he was switching off already. He couldn't help it, it was so dull and frankly, trying to keep up with Snape talking as if they were Potion Masters themselves was not helping in the slightest. 

"Explain the ingredients for Wiggenweld Potion." Snape said to the class, folding his arms. Silence. "Well?"

John winced. This was not going good at all.

"How you all managed to obtain the grades to get into my NEWT class is preposterous." Snape spat. 

More silence. 

"Perhaps I should give you all some Wit-Sharpening Potion, since you all seem to be in dire need of it!"

"Hmph." Came a voice from the back, a stark contrast to the deafening silence the class was in- save from Snape's shouts.

John turned to look over his shoulder to see who dared to speak, as did a few others. Everyone had their gaze on a pale, dark-haired Ravenclaw who was sat right at the back on his own. John furrowed his brows and recognised him as the one from the train.

Hold on, what was he doing here? Surely he wasn't in John's year or he'd know his name. 

"Ah. Holmes. What contribution are you making today?" Snape said, sneering. "Would you care to enlighten us?"

Holmes? As in Head Boy Mycoft Holmes? That's right, John thought, he was the one reading a Potion's textbook, wasn't he? 

The boy blinked curiously, looking at John for a minute before his eyes glimmered with recognition. Then he looked back over at Snape.

"Wiggenweld Potion." The boy said, his voice a lot nicer sounding than what John had imagined. "Used for healing injuries. Relatively straight-froward to make. Ingredients are one pint of Horklump juice, two drops of Flobberworm Mucus, seven Chizpurfle fangs, Billywing sting slime, a spring of mint, Boom Berry juice, one stewed Mandrake-"

"That's enough!" Snape snapped. "Just because you've been moved up a year doesn't make you entitled to show off how good you think you are. Stop being an insufferable know-it-all. It might have gotten you through your OWLs, but I won't stand for it here."

John caught Jim staring at Holmes with interest. Oh, great. New target. John turned back around so he didn't have to see the hurt on the poor guy's face. Snape could be a right arse sometimes. All the time. 

To his surprise, Holmes didn't quieten himself like he thought he would. 

"I believe I was just answering your question, Professor. I should think that be being an insufferable know-it-all has it's advantages, since the younger, and the so clearly disadvantaged, is the only one out of your class of elder and more knowledgeable students to answer you. Maybe that put's into perspective of how good I _know_ I am."

There was a stunned silence. John turned back around, he had to look at this ballsy idiot one more time before he got mutilated by Snape after that comment. Typical arrogant Ravenclaw. He saw Jim practically gleaming at him now, and it made him uneasy. 

Holmes didn't look in the slightest bit sorry. He glanced back at John again, this time he winked.

John had to give himself a second to catch up. He focused on his face, but it held no indication of having done so, the expression back to it's defiant stare at Snape.

"Out. Out of my class."

Holmes rolled his eyes and picked up his book. "Not like I was learning anything anyway." He said, and sauntered out the door without so much as a backwards glance.

"Anyone who intends to behave in a manner similar to that can leave this instance." Snape added for good measure. 

John raised his brows. Well this year was off to a fantastic start, wasn't it?

 

 

"Interesting," Jim murmured under his breath.

"Hm?" Sebastian looked up from the worksheet.

"This year." Jim stroked his chin thoughtfully as he smiled. "It just got interesting." 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done my homework and I'd love to share it! So a few things: 
> 
>  
> 
> Wands -
> 
>  
> 
> Mycroft - Applewood (known for the unusual ability to converse with other magical beings in their native languages, the owner usually has great personal charm. I instantly had to give Mycroft this wand wood, since he is knowledgeable in so many languages and could quite literally charm the pants of anyone).
> 
> Sebastian - Spruce wood (ill matched with owners who have nervous natures. Requires a firm hand to produce excellent magic. Best matched to a bold spell caster with a good sense of humour. I HAD to give this wood to Seb, it screamed at me).
> 
>  
> 
> Pet Names - (forgot to do John's and Greg's from the last chapter, so I'm putting them here)
> 
>  
> 
> John's toad - Boswell - A famous quote from Doyle's novels 'A Scandal in Bohemia' is Holmes saying "I am lost without my Boswell", referring to Watson. Boswell was a Scottish biographer who famously wrote the biography of his best friend, called 'Life of Samuel Johnson'.
> 
> Seb's rat - Tiger - Moran appeared in a different novella by George MacDonald Fraser called 'Flashman and the Tiger', in which he was nicknamed Tiger Jack.
> 
> Jim's acromantula - Reichenbach - Hm. Pretty obvious, this one. See if you can figure this one out, Sherlock. 
> 
> Greg's cat - Cinnamon - All right, you got me here. It's ginger, so it's called Cinnamon. Nothing clever about that one, but it's cute. 
> 
>  


	3. Silencio

 

 

John panted as he jogged to the end of the Quidditch pitch. He heaved, bent down to touch the ground and took off again in the other direction to repeat himself.

There was a quote or something, cry in the dojo and laugh in the ring? He really hated Greg for believing in that. He had the whole team doing laps back and forth across the entire pitch. If John didn't pass out from low blood sugar, he was going to kill him.

"Come on, Watson! Put your back into it!" Greg said from three meters up on his broom.

"Lestrade, I'm about two minutes away from kicking _your_ back in!" He shouted, and the rest of the team laughed, despite themselves. "Why don't you come down here and run this distance too?!"

"Who else is going to motivate you, you loon?"

"Oh, Lestrade the cheerleader." John said, and the team laughed a second time, loud enough that Greg came down from his broom in front of them.

"Oh yeah, laugh and joke, it's fine. You won't be the ones holding the damn victory after we _lose_!"  Greg shouted, right in John's ear. John winced.

"Captain, try outs are on Saturday." One of the Chasers said. 

"And I bet they'll be better than you lot." Greg folded his arms. 

"No offence, Greg, but is this your big plan on how we're going to win the Cup?" John folded his arms.

"Where's the flaw in training harder, longer and stronger?" Greg said.

"Uh, wait, hold on a minute I think I've got something, might be going out on a limb here but- WHY THE HELL DO WE NEED TO RUN?! We play on brooms for Christ's sake!"

There was a brief silence.

"Good point that, yeah. I actually just wanted to watch you run about like idiots for no reason." Greg said, and took off on his broom.

"You cock!" John shouted, as the rest on the team picked up their brooms as well to join him in the sky.

 

 

"Come on, John. It was funny."

"No, it wasn't." John said, pulling off his Quidditch robes to get changed back into his uniform. Gross, he'd need to shower later.

"I'm only going to be Captain for a year before I leave, I just wanted to have to some fun with it."

"You're an arse, Greg, that's what you are."

Greg laughed. "Thank you."

Greg was half-blood, so he had the muggle parent that John could relate to. It was probably what John gravitated towards. He didn't know if he'd class Greg as a friend though, or rather, if Greg would class him as friend. Greg was so popular and hung out with so many people, John didn't know who were his friends and who weren't. Worse yet, he didn't know where he fit into that pile himself. So he kept things friendly but distant. 

John buttoned up his shirt. "Oh god, I better check my timetable, I hope I don't have Potions today."

"Snape giving you a hard time?"

"You have no idea. You should have seen him the first day." John recalled the Holmes boy. "Hey, you know Mycroft, right?"

Greg frowned at the mention of his name, remembering upsetting him in the library. Both him and John were both back to back, not looking at each other's faces; bit awkward when they getting changed, so John didn't see the face Greg made. "Not really, he's in my classes. But kind of, yeah."

"Has he got a brother?" John said, tucking his shirt in. 

"Yeah he does; Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" John echoed.

"I know. The Holmes are pure-bloods. They have a sister too, I think. Eurus, or something? You wouldn't have any doubts with such wizardy names like that. Then there's us. Greg and John."

"Sherlock's in my Potions class."

"Is he? He's supossed to be in his fifth year."

"Apparently he moved up." John shrugged.

"Good for him. Must be smart, done his OWLs early. His brother is smart, anyway. Tutors in everything, apparently."

"How can he tutor in everything?"

"I said the same." Greg pulled on his jumper. 

"Well, Sherlock gave Snape a mouthful the first day." John smiled at the memory.

"Jesus, he has more balls than I thought. I've heard he's quite the wild card, difficult to put up with."

"Hm." John hummed, non-noncommittally. "Is Mycroft like that?"

"Oh, God no. He has the biggest stick up his arse, you wouldn't even imagine."

John laughed. "Not so similar then." He started to do up his tie. 

"Is he in any other of your classes?"

"Not sure. Didn't see him, but he got kicked out of Potions after that thing with Snape, so I'm guessing he just didn't turn up."

"That's the thing with smart people, you have to constantly keep them stimulated or they self-destruct. Dad told me that." 

John didn't reply. He pulled on his robes and picked up his stuff. "Got to run." He said, leaving the changing room to dash to next class.

"Funny, I thought you had enough of that from earlier." Greg couldn't help himself.

 

 

* * *

  

 

Sherlock lifted a hand to run his fingers through his dark curls. Tedious. Less than three days of being here and things were already tedious.

The library was hopefully going to be empty, it was the evening. He opened the door carefully, peeking his head round the door. Seemed quiet enough. Sherlock tiptoed through, hoping not to catch anyone's attention. He pulled out his wand to cast a spell - sycamore wood, phoenix tail core, 12 and half inches. 

" _Silencio_." He whispered, pointing it at his feet. With a grin, he walked across the library without so much as a squeak. It wasn't anywhere near the curfew time, but where he was going was strictly against the rules. With his grin widening, he started walking towards the restricted section of he library. Close now, just a stitch away from the door handle-

"Evening, brother mine."

Sherlock instantly stopped in his tracks. Damn it.

"Mycroft." He sneered, turning around. 

"Should I dare ask what you think you are doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I should think so though it begs the question; why?" Mycroft tilted his head, looking down at his brother. 

"Again, isn't it obvious?"

"Reading material can be re-read." Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock groaned loudly, despite being in the library.

"Why on Earth would I want to read something twice, Mycroft? I've read everything in this stupid library. Let me in the Restricted Section."

"No. It’s restricted for a reason."

"You're always taking everything, it's not fair." Sherlock jabbed at him. "Don't you know how to have a bit of fun?"

"Maybe if you turned up to your classes-"

"It's been three days, Mycroft, you can't tell how many classes I've been to by my cuff sleeve."

"One, it seems. Potions." Mycroft took his wrist, examining the cuff of his white shirt. There was a tiny smudge of Aconite Fluid where someone had not cleaned it entirely off the desk Sherlock was leaning on, possibly a previous lesson's practical.

Sherlock yanked his wrist away. "Shouldn't you be getting me a key for this door, like a proper big brother?"

"I'm not getting you anything." Mycroft said resignedly. 

"What a waste of being Head Boy. What do you even do with all that power if you can't use it?"

"You seriously misunderstand my title." 

"If you aren't going to let me in then leave me alone." Sherlock waved his hands in the air, his wand still in hand.

Mycroft watched him with careful eyes. "You need a distraction. Perhaps you should try tutoring-"

"I'm not doing that." Sherlock snorted.

"There's a second year, Victor Trevor who needs help in Charms. I would do it but my schedule-"

"And what a waste of a Time-Turner too. Don't you use it?" Sherlock seethed.

"Not for every mundane activity. And keep your voice down." Mycroft hissed. “At least think about tutoring.” 

“Hm, thought about it; no.” Sherlock turned on his heels and started making his way out of the library. 

"And do turn up to your classes." Mycroft called softly after him. 

He made sure to slam the door on his way out. 

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned loudly. Did anyone ever give him a break?

“What the hell do you want, Irene?”

She looked up at him with mock hurt. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, is it?”

She had her dark hair pinned up out of her carefully made up face, uniform impeccable. Apart from the fact that she was wearing a pencil skirt rather than the standard school skirt, describing it as ghastly. 

“I don’t discriminate.” Sherlock huffed, and started walking away. To his grief, she followed behind him. 

“I’ve sent you owls all summer. Did you read the letters? You never reply to me.” Irene said. 

“I burn all letters that begin with ‘Hi’.” 

“So you have been getting them! Lovely.” 

“Oh please spare me this, I’m not even in your year anymore.” Sherlock felt a headache coming on. Why was everyone so irritating?!

“Good to know you aren’t thinking of yourself as entirely superior now you’ve moved up.”

“I do, actually.” 

“I was being sarcastic.”

“So was I.”

“No you weren’t.” Irene grinned, the lipstick she was wearing making her look older. 

“Where’s your silly friend, why don’t you go and bother her?” Sherlock huffed.

“Kate? I’m not sure actually, think she’s in the dorm, I left her there.” 

“Wonder why she hasn’t done that to you.”

Irene laughed like silk and adjusted her blue tie. “She’s looking after Bohemia for me.” 

“That devil cat.”

“You remembered my pussy, should I be honoured?” Irene raised a brow at him. 

Sherlock cringed. “Get away or I’ll make sure that black cat of yours doesn’t stay black.”

“And what are you going to do to my kitty?” She said, playfully. “Describe, in detail, exactly what you’ll do to my kitty.” 

“Aren’t you gay?” Sherlock was really scraping the bottom of the barrel here. Anything to get away. He knew exactly what she meant by kitty and it wasn’t a feline. 

“Very. And so are you. I do like a bit of fun though. You are so entertaining to wind up.” She lifted an arm, putting a hand on the crook of his elbow.

“Wind me up some other time then, I’m busy.” He growled. He wasn’t going to lie. He did kind of like her attention. She was the only one who gave him any.  

“Do the thing for me one time and I’ll leave.”

Sherlock stopped and said nothing. Irene blinked through her long lashes up at him. “Please.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes before looking down the corridor. It wasn’t too busy. He picked out the girl by the fountain. 

“Fourth year, no tie but she’s a Slytherin, she has an S imprinted on the corners of her collar. No siblings, only child-” 

“Not important, Sherlock, I want the important stuff.” Irene held out up hand, interrupting. 

Sherlock screwed up his face. He hated when people interrupted. He huffed again. 

“Bisexual; likes guys more than girls, but has suffered a bad breakup recently so is more inclined to get into a relationship with a girl than a boy. Probably wants to forget, you know how people are so unnecessarily sentimental-” 

“Absolutely.”

“-Does enjoy the bit of kink; soft stuff though, you’ll be disappointed. Easily switches but prefers to be submissive-”

“Say no more.” Irene said, silencing him with a manicured finger on his lips. She sauntered over to the Slytherin girl, and Sherlock rolled his eyes for the fifth time that day as he watched Irene interact with her.

 

 

Sherlock had spent most of the evening wandering the grounds. It was dark out now, he suspected he had missed dinner hours ago and it was well past curfew. Ideally, he should in bed with his teeth brushed and fast asleep by now. But he was Sherlock, and Sherlock didn’t do the ordinary. 

He’d have to sneak back in to the Ravenclaw common room later. Wouldn’t help his situation at all if he got caught, he’d rather avoid the drama. For now, he was going back to library. 

The halls of Hogwarts were dead quiet after curfew. Sherlock took an educated guess that it was probably after 2am. 

“ _Lumos_.” He said, and the tip of his wand lit up like a torch. Not that he’d need the light. He’d managed to mind map most of the castle grounds over his time here into his palace, he’d be able to do it with his eyes closed. 

With a few looks around, he set off down the hallway. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” One of the paintings said to him. Sherlock turned to it and held a finger to his lips, making him tut. The paintings wouldn’t tell on him. He’d have to avoid Filch the care-taker though. 

“Honestly. Second one tonight.”

That made Sherlock stop. He retraced his steps back to the painting. 

“What do you mean, second one?” 

“Another student. Lot ruder than you, didn’t even acknowledge I was talking to him.”

Great. Another person he had to avoid. Why the hell were they out of bed?

Sherlock continued his walk round the corner with careful steps. 

Oh God- it was Mycroft wasn’t it? How did he know Sherlock was up at this hour? Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Of course Mycroft knew. 

Sherlock wasn’t even paying attention to where he was going, he was so annoyed. Let Mycroft come and get him, he really didn’t care. He rounded the corner and bumped into a body. Startled slightly, he held out the light at it.

It was a boy - not Mycroft - still in his pyjamas. He had his back to him and made no indication of having realised Sherlock had knocked into him. 

Sherlock moved around in front of him and held the light up to his face. It was that sandy-haired boy. And he had his eyes closed. He was asleep. 

Asleep and standing? Interesting, thought Sherlock. 

He waved a hand in front of the boy’s face, but he was well and truly asleep. He had no slippers on his feet. Sleepwalking?

Sherlock prodded him with a bony finger. The myth of waking a sleepwalker were amazingly untrue, and this was rather amusing. 

“Hello? Wake up.”

The boy grunted slightly. 

“Come on, I can’t have you traipsing around like a house ghost.”

The boy screwed up his features and opened up his eyes, blinking rapidly. 

“Wha-? What?” 

“Good evening. Or night. Or maybe morning is appropriate.” Sherlock smirked.

The boy blinked again, talking in his surroundings. 

“Oh, did I-? Again?” The boy spoke in unfinished sentences, still half asleep. 

“You’re a persistent sleepwalker then?” Sherlock said softly. 

“You.” The boy said. “What are you doing here?” 

“Long story, one I’m not avid on explaining at this point in time. Sherlock Holmes, by the way.” 

“I know who you are.” He attempted to shake the sleepiness out of his head. “John Watson.” 

“Lovely meeting you.” Sherlock found he didn’t have to force himself to fake any truth in that sentence. It surprisingly wasn’t just empty words. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be off. And do make as much noise as possible, you’ll be a keen distraction for the patrols.” 

“Off where? Oh, forget it. I better get back before somebody finds me out of bed and I’ll have to explain myself.” John bit through his bottom lip, eyes on the floor. He looked embarrassed. 

Sherlock lifted an intrigued brow. How very interesting, he thought. His second thought surprised him, because he said it out loud.

“Come with me.” Sherlock said, wrapping his hand around the boy’s wrist and pulling him. “And keep your voice down.”

“What? Where are you going?” John’s shorter legs hurried after him. 

“I said keep it down.” Sherlock hissed. “We can’t we seen or heard.”

He led them to the corridor of the library. Filch was strolling down it, and Sherlock ducked backwards in the nick of time. He released John’s wrist and pressed the back of his arm over the shorter boy’s chest, sandwiching him into the wall.

“Shh. It’s Filch.” 

“You’re the one making all the noise, you twat.” John whispered, making Sherlock grin. “What the Hell am I even doing here? Where are we going, Sherlock?” 

“The library.” Sherlock whispered back. He was still looking down the hall, so he didn’t see the face John made. 

“The library? You’ve snuck out to go to the library, are you having a laugh?” 

“The Restricted section.” Sherlock said, turning his face towards John. 

John halted. He never noticed what pretty eyes he had. They only accentuated his ridiculous cheekbones, and the curve of his cupid’s bow was so exaggerated it couldn’t be real. His whole face looked like it had been carved out of stone like those art pieces in museums. John flicked out his tongue to wet his lips. 

“Oh.” John said. 

Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement, before he turned back around to check for Filch. 

“He’s gone.” He said, leaning off the wall and moving down the corridor, this time not taking John’s wrist. 

John scurried after him. “Wait!” He whisper-shouted.

“Quickly now.”

Sherlock tried the door to the library, but it was locked. 

“What now?” John said. 

Sherlock lifted his wand. “ _Alohomora_.”

The lock clicked and they slipped inside. 

Once they were in, John exhaled an audible breath. 

“What do you want from the Restricted section anyway?” 

“I haven’t the faintest.”

John looked perplexed. “I don’t understand.” 

“New material. Anything.” 

“And all this won’t do?” John motioned to the other books. Then a look of realisation crossed over his features. “You’ve read them all, haven’t you?”

Sherlock stopped. He locked eyes with John as he attempted to figure him out. “Hm. You’re cleverer than you look.” 

“Pretty damn clever then, I hope.” John scoffed.

“Exceedingly so.” Sherlock said, smiling mischievously.

John scoffed. “All right, no need to take the piss.” 

“I’m not. If I were you’d know about it.”

John thought about the Snape incident. Right.

“I’m bored, I need information. Anything. I’ll decide if it’s useful to keep or if it needs deleting later.” Sherlock muttered, moving towards the Restricted Section. 

John didn’t question what the hell he was on about, because he was sick of sounding like an idiot in front of this smart boy who was a year younger than him but annoyingly taller. 

“Why did you bring me?” 

Sherlock stopped, hand on the door handle. He turned with a look that showed John he was dying to tell him. 

“Well, look at you.”

What? John thought for fiftieth time that evening. Was he hitting on him? 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You crave adventure.” 

Oh. So he wasn’t hitting on him then, John found himself surprised in thinking so in the first place.  

“Well, I am a Griffindor.” 

“No, not that.” Sherlock moved closer to him, making John step back, the Restricted Section long forgotten. “You’re an inconsistent sleeper, not because of the sleepwalking, because of the nightmares. Overactive brain activity then, usually requires high levels of stimulation - I should know - and the shakes in your hands appear when you’ve been sat still for too long; not ADHD, you’ve been checked. And then there’s your stride; ever so slightly heavier on the right foot than the left, a childhood injury, broken leg, likely in three places if it still affects you today though barely; you’re still able to play Quidditch without any trouble, so it must have been broken in two places then, when you were out playing as a free-spirited child with your over-active imagination. Then of course there’s Quidditch; you play such a dangerous sport for the rush of endorphins, but you still quite enjoy the strict rules of the game, surprisingly, since you’re willingly breaking into the Restricted Section of the library after curfew with a boy you hardly know.”

John paused then inhaled on Sherlock’s behalf. Somehow he had rattled through all that in one breath. 

“You’re a Leglimens?”

Sherlock looked disgusted. “I didn’t just read your mind. I didn't need to.” 

John blinked. “Then how?” 

Sherlock grinned. “It’s pretty clear.” 

“You know I have nightmares, and that I’ve been checked for ADHD. You can’t possibly know that.” John stuttered.

“Parasomnias like sleepwalking and nightmares are usually linked. And you have worrying muggle parents, of course you were tested for ADHD among other things; they had no idea you were a wizard at the time. Though I must emphasise the shakes are nothing to do with your wizarding capability, but rather your hunger for adventure which I hope I have just proved.”

John’s jaw dropped. “That was...”

“Irritating?” 

“Fantastic!”

Sherlock lifted his brows. "That's not what most people say."

"Well they should, that was bloody brilliant." John grinned.

Sherlock blinked. That was new. With nothing else to comment, he turned back towards the door of the Restricted Section, though he seemed hesitant in his movements, like he was contemplating something. 

He attempted to open the door with a twist of the handle. It didn't budge.

"Try the spell again?" John offered. 

Sherlock flicked his wand. " _Alohomora_."

The door did not click, nor did it budge. 

"Damn. I should have sensed this. Mycroft was bound to have relayed a message to get it locked properly. I'll have to practice the stronger unlocking charm."

"So we aren't going in then."

"Not tonight, unfortunately."

There was footsteps down the hall outside, echoing through the quiet of the night. 

"Shit. Is that Filch?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, ducking himself into a quick sprint. John took a second to catch up. "We'll have to leave now."

They paused behind the library main door as the footsteps continued down the corridor. Eventually, they turned the corner and left. Sherlock opened the door and poked his exposed head out, turning it left and right and looking like a right spectacle. John hid his grin. He followed after the taller boy as they quickly and quietly made their way through the halls. 

"Wait, where are we going now?" John panted as they made their way up the moving stairs. They came to a stop outside the Fat Lady's painting; the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. "Oh." John deflated when he realised that was the end of their escapades for the night.

"John, you were of great use tonight."

"I didn't do anything." John shrugged.

"On the contrary." Sherlock smirked.

"Was fun though."

Sherlock didn't drop the smirk. "I advise you to _stay_ in bed for the rest of the night."

"Only a few hours before I have to get up for class. Speaking of which, why aren't you in them anymore?"

Sherlock's expression changed to a sneer. "I hate them."

"But you're so clever." John pointed out.

"Exactly."

John tapped his feet, his toes wiggling where his feet were still bare. "Well. I guess I'll see you... sometime? Or not."

Sherlock's smile returned, eyes filled with mischief. "Goodnight, John." He said, and left.

John turned around and mumbled the password, grunting as he shuffled his way back to the dormitory. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wands -
> 
> Sherlock - sycamore wood (known to be eager for new experience and losing brilliance if engaged in mundane activities. This wood may combust if allowed to become bored. Owners are typically curious, vital and adventurous. Tell me there isn't are more suiting wand wood for Sherlock, I dare you).
> 
>  
> 
> Pet names-
> 
> Irene’s black cat - Bohemia - Irene Adler was featured in A.C.D’s short ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’. I figured she’d be the type to have a black cat.


End file.
